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word worrier
word wanderer
caught impossible
thought entirely
lexicographer extraordinaire
except for those I’m dumb on
like Floccinaucinihilipilification
which could mean
anythang x
Safana Apr 6
The trumpet is gradually blowing.
It's neither awake nor asleep.
And the drum beat hit a bit.
And the whispering voice that you hear
Later, the bold roar of a wolf rises.
Far in the distance, a speechless child
Waving her hand to catch the green
Imagine this kind of dreaming.
Happening in the sense of reality
Moving toward the girl horrendously
But my tongue was quaking like a snake.
I don't know what to say to help.
Because of the hideousness of her face,
It was a call from the darkness.
My name is loudly mentioned periodically.

Take me away.
Take me away.
Take me away.

Dark smoke diffuses from an unknown space.
It covers almost everywhere in space.
I started coughing.
I think I will go to the grave. That is.
I am absolutely tethered to the rope and,
I'm being dragged somewhere like a hole.
I screamingly shouted 
Again and again,
And then, quite suddenly,

And then,
silence suddenly,
My eyes slowly begin to open
I am beneath a concrete canopy.
It's a stone chamber like a crypt.
Far from it, it's a ropeless,
a suspended bed draped in a red blanket

I am dragged heavily towards the bed's edge.
Suddenly, I am suspended between up and down.
And the man, with a horror face, woke from the bed
approaching my side, invoking Cyphe incantations.
He circled the ground with red blood.
His gaze was fixed on the roof. He is
Incanting with an unperceiveable word.

"wede demi yimit’u
  wede demi yimit’u
  wede demi yimit’u"

"demuni yimitu ina
gurorowoni yarik’u."

"o፣ widi yesī’oli āganiniti፣

weyi widi yesī’oli seyit’anati

weyi widi yekirīpiti seyit’ani"

He took his head and looked 
deeply into my sight, then a knife.
appeared in his hand. 
He approached where I am suspended.
All of a sudden, he came and stabbed the knife in the area of my chest.
I screamingly shouted again
and again and I woke up when
I realized it was my cat 
sitting on my chest.
In Silence
The English ex SAS Special Forces member went to the Ukraine to fight. He travelled light and took just a small back pack and a head full of skills. A gun was a gun and a bayonet a bayonet. He was trained to use most things as weapon especially military articles.

He decided to go to the Ukraine after the Russians invaded proper in early 2022. The Ukrainian Army took him to a holding facility where they vetted him. This took three days. Included was basic close combat skills and weapons use.

He excelled and was given a job, being sent to a forward artillery position with a dozen other foreign troops to protect it. The SAS man was in charge and most men and the single girl spoke English. All understood military commands and signals. All were veterans from either conscript or professional armies.

Each was here for their own reasons and all disliked either what Russia had done or Russians themselves. The English SAS member had killed several Muslim terrorists from Daesh and al Qaeda in Iraq and Afghanistan. Now he looked forward to fighting and killing some Russians, officers if possible. After being in the Ukraine six days he was on the front line leading his first patrol. This was better than being a bouncer in a Manchester night club!

The SAS guy ordered his men to only use bayonets as they silently crept to a Russian fox hole a mile away. He wanted blood and the rush of combat, of killing. There was the trench and a single sentry, asleep. He would knife him himself. Then his squad would ****** the rest and take back any weapons, maps or documents. He spoke four languages including Russian. Any Intel was good for his bosses though. Here we go! There’s the sleeping sentry. Gently now, he must die in silence…
Should I become a middle school math or English teacher?
Leave my bed early in the morning and return with test papers to grade.
With what authority will I persuade those kids to sit still and perform
      calculations and interpretations.
I won’t be allowed to teach A Good Man Is Hard To Find. Nope, it’ll be
      Catcher in the Rye, Lord of the Flies and Slaughterhouse Five. Novels
      that annoy.
Poems and math are magic. Words and numbers are things no one has
      ever seen or heard or touched.
But the administration keeps them separate. The curriculum’s
The kids are beautiful but combustible. When middle school lets out at
      the periapsis of Earth’s orbit, that’s the face of joy.

The purpose of school is to introduce us to the world’s innumerable
      wonders. The periodic table, World Wars I and II, Huckleberry Finn
      and Jim.
Once a gaggle of teenage girls bet whether I wore boxers or jockeys. I felt
      ambushed and unlucky. Also a bit afraid.
There’s little love lost between the students and the teachers. Expect to
      forget and be forgotten. Information.
I remember Mr. Killian my chemistry teacher. So boring about something
      I now find so interesting and important. He wasn’t boring; I was
I remember Mr. Christensen my history teacher. He was fat and funny but
      taught as little as possible. I was known to laugh so hard I cried.
I remember Mr. T my calculus teacher. He dressed everyday exactly like
      Gene Kranz in mission control. I was confused past help so he didn’t
I remember Tone Kwas my music teacher. He said I was the worst
      trumpet player he’d ever tried to teach and switched me to
      sousaphone. He was right but so what! Playing badly is the best
Eva Jan 28
Walking heartache
Daily headache
You’ll be the end of me.

You’re a stone cold brute
I want a shot, but don’t know how to shoot.
Everything seems impossible with you.

So, why do I care? Why do I stay?
Maybe I’ll figure myself out some day.
This is my modern English translation of Paul Valéry's poem “Le cimetière marin” (“The graveyard by the sea”). Valéry was buried in the seaside cemetery evoked in his best-known poem. From the vantage of the cemetery, the tombs seemed to “support” a sea-ceiling dotted with white sails. Valéry begins and ends his poem with this image ...

Excerpts from “Le cimetière marin” (“The graveyard by the sea”)
from Charmes ou poèmes (1922)
by Paul Valéry
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Do not, O my soul, aspire to immortal life, but exhaust what is possible.
—Pindar, Pythian Ode 3

This tranquil ceiling, where white doves are sailing,
stands propped between tall pines and foundational tombs,
as the noonday sun composes, with its flames,
sea-waves forever forming and reforming ...
O, what a boon, when some lapsed thought expires,
to reflect on the placid face of Eternity!

As a pear dissolves in the act of being eaten,
transformed, through sudden absence, to delight
relinquishing its shape within our mouths,
even so, I breathe in vapors I’ll become,
as the sea rejoices and its shores enlarge,
fed by lost souls devoured; more are rumored.

Beautiful sky, my true-blue sky, ’tis I
who alters! Pride and indolence possessed me,
yet, somehow, I possessed real potency ...
But now I yield to your ephemeral vapors
as my shadow steals through stations of the dead;
its delicate silhouette crook-*******, “Forward!”

... My soul still awaits reports of its nothingness ...

... What corpse compels me forward, to no end?
What empty skull commends these strange bone-heaps?
A star broods over everything I lost ...

... Here where so much antique marble
shudders over so many shadows,
the faithful sea slumbers ...

... Watchful dog ...
Keep far from these peaceful tombs
the prudent doves, all impossible dreams,
the angels’ curious eyes ...

... The brittle insect scratches out existence ...
... Life is enlarged by its lust for absence ...
... The bitterness of death is sweet and the mind clarified.

... The dead do well here, secured here in this earth ...
... I am what mutates secretly in you ...

I alone can express your apprehensions!
My penitence, my doubts, my limitations,
are fatal flaws in your exquisite diamond ...
But here in their marble-encumbered infinite night
a formless people sleeping at the roots of trees
have slowly adopted your cause ...

... Where, now, are the kindly words of the loving dead? ...
... Now grubs consume, where tears were once composed ...

... Everything dies, returns to earth, gets recycled ...

And what of you, great Soul, do you still dream
there’s something truer than these deceitful colors:
each flash of golden surf on eyes of flesh?
Will you still sing, when you’re as light as air?
Everything perishes and has no presence!
I am not immune; Divine Impatience dies!

Emaciate consolation, Immortality,
grotesquely clothed in your black and gold habit,
transfiguring death into some Madonna’s breast,
your pious ruse and cultivated lie:
who does not know and who does not reject
your empty skull and pandemonic laughter?

The wind is rising! ... We must yet strive to live!
The immense sky opens and closes my book!
Waves surge through shell-shocked rocks, reeking spray!
O, fly, fly away, my sun-bedazzled pages!
Break, breakers! Break joyfully as you threaten to shatter
this tranquil ceiling where white doves are sailing!


“Le vent se lève! . . . il faut tenter de vivre!
L'air immense ouvre et referme mon livre,
La vague en poudre ose jaillir des rocs!
Envolez-vous, pages tout éblouies!
Rompez, vagues! Rompez d'eaux réjouies
Ce toit tranquille où picoraient des focs!”

Keywords/Tags: Paul Valery, French poem, English translation, sea, seaside, cemetery, grave, graves, graveyard, death, sail, sails, doves, ceiling, soul, souls
Lalaouna Amina Dec 2021
to spell incorrectly:
utterances, circumstances,
suggestions, assumptions,
But the terror:
to state Button as Bottom!
answering questions
MuseumofSoph Nov 2021
It’s quite funny to break the rules

Whether it’s through lyrics
or rhymes

Art is art despite the flaws

Stop making so many laws
This goes out to all my English teachers
SCAIZE Oct 2021
been too long poured by her own rain
she wants to think the rain beautifully
yet she also wants to see the sun hurriedly
or a glimpse of rainbow
she said maybe not now
but she believed in herself somehow
ScaryGary Oct 2021
An apple a day keeps the doctor away, unless he owns the orchard.

Either way you have to pay to keep the doctor away, or in a bushel basket. A signal from your own mind keeps the doctor away. That's free though...and we don't want nothing free! Not even our neighbor! Not even our dom. Or is it dum? No handouts buddy! Until we figure out a way to tax your mind, no handouts.

Get it yet Waldo?

Medical Industry - You Work For Us, and YOU Pay Yourself By Paying Us To Make You Think You're Not Doing The Labor. If this isn't true, we have a pill for you. We know having no pill is hard to swallow. AMA
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